Sacrilege
by TypeManipule'S8E94U
Summary: Alternate Universe: Castiel Novak works as the pastor of a local congregation in Eden Prairie, Minnesota. Before long, Dean Winchester, a radical replacement for the staunch Pastor Richards, comes along and turns his views upside-down.


Castiel pondered the steady streaks of rain against the window of the sacristy, blurring the grass and concrete outside into a mess of green and grey. His eyes shone azure with the scarce light of the dreary day, black priests' vestments contrasting his milky skin. Oftentimes, alone in the church on an autumn afternoon, he would stare out at the world, watching as the glass would sprout iron bars, his sanctuary becoming his cell. He heaved a sigh and replaced the chasuble in the wardrobe.

The chancel granted him a small reprieve from the routine. He loved the Lord with all his heart, that was certain, yet from time to time he preferred to dwell on earthly pleasures. The soft silk of the altar cloth, the glint of the gold candelabra; once he even drank from the store of sacramental wine (He wept and pled for forgiveness immediately afterward). Still, above all was the simple splay of multicolored light from the stained glass. Pools of crimson, emerald, amber and amethyst splashed on the wooden floor and pews, glowing and shifting under the sheets of rain. The gentle, showering staccato beyond the walls of the church filled him with peace. He closed his eyes, muttering quietly, "Thank you, Father."

He paused and frowned, perking his ears as he heard the rain grow louder and quieter once more, hearing the door to the vestibule close with a gentle thud. He circled the pulpit and walked slowly down the aisle.

A man sauntered through the door to the sanctuary, dripping wet, a brown jacket slung over his shoulder. His boots thumped conspicuously against the floor as he walked, a youthful smirk toying into his stubble. He stopped a pace before Castiel, giving him a moment to take him in. Tall, more or less; bright green eyes; handsome face. He looked like he'd been staying at truck stops for the past week.

"Can I help you?" asked Castiel, struggling to keep his composure.

"I figured I'd be the one doing the helping," replied the stranger.

"Excuse me?" Castiel could feel the sweat forming on his brow.

"I'm Dean Winchester. The replacement for Pastor Richards." He held out a hand.

Castiel gulped and shook it, eyes wide. "Castiel Novak."

"You okay, Preach?" chuckled Dean. "You look like you just saw a ghost."

"I. . . yes, I'm fine," Castiel stammered. "I suppose I expected someone different. Come right this way, I'll show you around."

Castiel walked him through the small church, explaining the schedule, the supplies, the service, Dean nodding and smiling all the while. Castiel forced himself to break eye contact with the new pastor more than once, feeling a heat rise up in his neck as the man observed him.

"I think that's everything," said Castiel, ending the tour in the lobby. "Have any questions?"

"Yeah," said Dean, tilting his head. "I'm drenched. Is there a place I can shower off, get changed?"

"Oh my goodness," gasped Castiel, "I'm such an idiot! Of course, you must be freezing—I'm so sorry—"

"Don't worry about it," laughed Dean. "You seemed so excited about the church, I figured I'd let you show off a little."

Castiel let out a small, strangled laugh before swallowing and saying, "Sure, I'll show you to the rectory. I guess you'll be staying with me."

The realization hit Castiel's stomach like a sack of bricks.

Dean.

Staying with him.

* * *

Castiel watched the kettle on the stove, the patter of rain ceasing as the sky roiled with clouds the color of ash. The downpour had transformed his back yard into a miniature marsh. He would have to spend the following morning tending to his azaleas, a treat rather than a chore. God had given Castiel a green thumb, and he reveled in nurturing his garden and watching life take hold. He spent hours some days, taking in the aroma of the butterfly bush, the hum of the honeybees. He loved his congregation, that was certain; but the garden provided him some release from the day's toil.

The whistle of steam dulled his drifting thoughts, and he set about pouring the water into mugs with psalms and lambs etched on the sides.

"Cas?" Dean's gruff voice came from behind him; Castiel hadn't heard the shower stop running.

"Yeah, what's—" Castiel turned and froze. Slivers of puddles trailed from the bathroom to where Dean now stood, naked but for a hand towel clutched over his hips. His chest, abs, legs, arms, everything teemed with muscle, droplets cascading down his taut, lightly freckled skin.

"No towels," grimaced Dean. "Sorry, I didn't mean to. . . well, this"—he indicated the towel—"but you didn't answer me when I yelled, so."

"Oh," Castiel nearly choked. "Right. Towels. I. . . here, I'll show you."

Castiel set off down the hallway, fixing his eyes painstakingly ahead. He opened the linen closet, plucking a fluffy ivory towel from the shelf and handing it to Dean.

"That should work better." Castiel gave a small laugh, eyes on the carpet.

"Thanks, Cas," chuckled Dean. The small cloth dropped to the floor as he replaced it quickly, flashing flesh and hair for just an instant. The instant was all it took: The heat in Cas's cheeks, the flutter of his heartbeat, the wetness collecting in his mouth. He moved his legs back and forth, trying to conceal the erection rapidly swelling against his pants, though the friction only made it worse. Luckily, Dean slipped into his room, allowing Castiel to think of his dead grandmother, Wonderbread, Disneyland, anything, _anything_ to spurn his arousal.

"So how long have you been here in Eden Prairie?" asked Dean through the door.

"Uh. . . all my life," gave Castiel simply. "I grew up here in the parish, figured I'd give back what was given to me."

"Aww, that's sweet," fawned Dean half-mockingly.

"And you?" replied Castiel, rejoicing in the decreasing rigidity of his manhood. "Your file said you were last in Austin. That's a big change."

"Yeah, I needed a change of pace. I liked the city, but I think I was getting scatterbrained. Too much to do. Here, things are calm. I could get used to that."

Dean opened the door, dressed in flannel and jeans. Castiel, now flaccid, managed a small smile.

"Would you like some tea?"

Dean curls his lip. "I'm more of a coffee drinker."

Castiel mentally scolded himself for not having thought of that.

"But hey, even if it's not my cup of tea, right?"

Castiel stared at him, wondering if he should force a laugh.

"Yeah, that was pretty bad. But I got a feeling God likes bad jokes."

Castiel smiled at that, and motioned for Dean to take a seat at the table.

"It's earl grey, if that makes any difference," Castiel shrugged, placing a mug before Dean.

Dean rumbled a laugh and shook his head. "I just assume it's all the same, no offense."

"None taken." Castiel took the seat opposite, leaving Dean to watch him a moment from beneath a furrowed brow.

"I wanna apologize for what happened. With the whole naked thing. I know I must've made you uncomfortable."

"It's nothing, Dean," stammered Castiel, pausing a moment. "Though I'm wondering. . . why you seemed so unashamed."

Dean lifted his gaze. "I've got nothing to hide."

"That may be the case. All the same, the forbidden fruit was forbidden for a reason."

"I think you're missing something there, Cas."

"And what would that be, Dean?" Oh, for the love of God, was he flirting?

"Well, the fruit gave Adam and Eve knowledge. They realized they were naked. But along with that, it gave them free will, the broken covenant with God. The way I see it, they _chose_ to feel shame. They _chose_ to hide their bodies from each other. With the free will given to me by the grace of God, I choose to feel at home and comfortable in my own skin."

Castiel fell silent as he thumbed the rim of his mug, eyes honed on empty space.

"You don't think so?" asked Dean, brushing a shoulder forward.

"No, that's not it," responded Castiel, severing slowly from his reverie. "I suppose I've never thought of the story way before."

"I mean, I can't take all the credit," snickered Dean. "My dad was new-agey and nondenominational, almost Buddhist in some ways."

"And your mom?" Castiel burned his lips sipping his tea, though he tried not to let it show.

"She died when I was a kid. I think that's what made my dad the way he was. He trying to find some way her death meant something, and religion was what helped him cope. He pretty much OD-ed on Jesus."

"'Religion is the opiate of the masses,'" recited Castiel. "Is that what you believe?"

"I believe religion is whatever we want it to be. I'm a pastor, sure, and I think everyone needs a connection to God. At the same time, I accept that people find that relationship on their own terms."

"It's so unfair though, isn't it?" Castiel clasped his hands together, resting his head on his knuckles. "We were born into the faith, but so many people don't even have the chance to know God."

"That's one of the biggest struggles of my faith," nodded Dean. "As many times as we say that we're saving people, some days it feels like we're condemning them."

"I suppose that's why we have evangelism," muttered Castiel weakly. "So we can save as many as we can."

"Do you really believe that?" asked Dean.

His voice had fallen soft, almost distant, and the spark in his eyes grew dark. The two sat in silence, Castiel's mouth slightly ajar. He paused a moment with squinted eyes and crinkled brow, then nodded slowly. His words came almost as a whisper.

"What do you believe, Dean?"

Dean smiled, yet his eyes seemed weary and hollow.

"I believe in faith. Faith is what guides me."

* * *

A knock came on the half-open door. Castiel wheeled around, toothbrush in mouth.

"Hi," said Dean, grinning wide. "Room enough for two?"

Castiel nodded, uncomfortably conscious of the toothpaste and saliva leaking from his lips.

"Thanks." Dean popped in. His attire of sweatpants and crew-neck might've looked dumpy on someone else, but not him, not to Castiel.

"Only one bathroom in the place," explained Dean, squeezing some Crest onto his toothbrush. Hope I'm not crowding you."

Castiel shook his head, quickly going over his molars one last time before spitting into the sink.

"Tell me," asked Dean, gesturing with his brush hand, "what was Pastor Richards like? I wanna know what I'm getting into."

"Didn't you read the email we sent?"

"I skimmed it. Besides, I like to hear from someone who knew the guy."

"There wasn't much to him," shrugged Castiel. "Very 'by-the-book,' generally kept to himself. He gave great sermons, he just. . . wasn't very much of a people person."

"Fundamentalist?" questioned Dean through a mouthful of spit.

"Not necessarily," replied Castiel, brow furrowed in thought. "More just traditional. He liked things to stay the same. Whenever a member of the church council suggested to change the service or the message of the ministry, he'd shut them down right away. Like this one time, Lily Pearson said we should update the music, make it a little more modern. Pastor Richards got all cold and just said, 'Absolutely not.' We lost three families after that. I guess he could be. . . inflexible. Eventually, I think the pressure to get with the times got to him and he had to retire.

"Anyway," he went on, pouring a small cup of Listerine, "we're glad to have you here, Dean. We thought you'd give a fresh perspective."

Dean spat into the sink, watching Castiel closely. "Richards never got married?"

"No. I think he said something once about women 'distracting him from God's mission.'"

"And you never. . . ?"

"Oh, no," blurted Castiel. "I guess. . . God just hasn't chosen a woman for me."

His mind took him instantly to his mission trip to South Africa, ten years prior. Everything came in a blur of sights and sounds, Emmett's curly black hair, his booming laugh, his strong arms and wide smile.

_I've never met someone quite like you, Castiel._

"Hey, you still with me?" asked Dean, snapping him back into the present. "You looked a little lost for a second there."

"Yeah, I'm fine," muttered Castiel, sucking back the mouthwash.

"I guess you could say the same for me," said Dean. "They say there's someone for everyone, but who knows."

Castiel's eyes glowed for a moment. He then realized the wintermint in his mouth had begun to burn and emptied it into the sink. He caught Dean's eye in the mirror. They stayed there a moment, Castiel's eyes wide, almost fearful; and Dean with that stupid grin on his face. For a moment Castiel was on the verge of speaking, as if he were standing on the edge of a precipice and ready to leap. Instead, he cleared his throat.

"Well, it's time I got to bed. See you tomorrow, Dean."

"Sleep tight, Preach."

Ugh, that damn smile.

* * *

Castiel knelt in front of his zinnias, tugging at the weeds circling their roots and tossing them onto a tarpaulin at his side. The flowers were coming in nicely, displaying the loveliest shades of violet and maroon. He smiled at the ladybugs and bumblebees that flitted through the foliage. The sun shone brightly, a light breeze tousling his hair.

"Hey, Cas," said Dean, leaning against the sliding glass door. "I got you some lunch from the burger joint down the street." He held up a greasy paper bag.

"Thanks," said Castiel, who had forgotten entirely about Burgerino. He got up, brushed off his knees and shucked off his gloves. Dean fished through the bag and pulled out a burger, handing it to Castiel. He unwrapped it greedily and took a bite.

"Cas, what's your take on homosexuality?" asked Dean. Castiel nearly spat out his burger.

"Uh, well," he stammered, "a lot of people look to Leviticus. I'm not certain, but. . . I think God wants people to feel loved, and if a man loves a man or a woman loves a woman, that's fine by me."

"I was hoping you'd say that," said Dean. He threw the burger bag to the side and slid his arms around Castiel's waist, looking right into his eyes. "Cas, I've wanted you since the minute I saw you."

Castiel swallowed. "Really?"

"Mmmm." His lips touched Castiel's, just a brush at first, then stronger and fuller as he pulled Castiel against him. Castiel wrapped his arms around Dean's neck, digging his fingers into his hair and locking him there, he never wanted to let go, just to stay there in that moment, Dean against him, _his_ Dean.

Before he knew it, Dean had him splayed half-naked across his bed, the two of them writhing together, Castiel's breath stopping every time their jeans rubbed together, right there, twin cocks yearning against the denim, aching wonderfully to be free, to touch, skin against skin. Dean showered him in kisses, touching their tongues lightly before kissing his neck, his chest, following the slight crease in his belly down to the zipper his pants, popping the button open and rubbing against the cloth with his palm, chuckling softly as Castiel whimpered with his touch.

"You want this," whispered Dean, gently but forcefully. "I know you do."

"Yes," said Castiel. "Yes, please, yes."

Castiel's vision blurred, feeling only Dean, lips and tongue and hot and wet around him, the sensitive skin begging for attention after so many years of solitude. Time played tricks with him, racing and lagging torturously with the strokes and then dear God dean was licking at his hole with the most tantalizing power and delicacy, sending shockwaves of pleasure through Castiel, who thrashed and tossed about on the bed, not away from Dean, no, never away from that wonderful sensation of being opened up, of sharing his most intimate, vulnerable space with him, knowing that Dean would be his first time, the first man with whom he would share everything. Finally, Dean undid his pants and pressed himself against Castiel, finally breaking past that barrier of muscle and sex and Jesus fucking Christ—

Castiel started, panting and sweating, looking around the room. The blue illumination of his alarm clock flashed the numerals 3:40 in his face. A streetlight glimmered faintly through his drawn curtains. He rubbed his eyes and groaned as he saw the bump in his sheets, where his fantasy still held him tight. He sighed and fell back spread-eagled against the pillow. Alone.

"Damn you, Dean."


End file.
